


Night Songs

by NoctuaFoxglove



Category: Promethean: The Created, Werewolf: The Apocalypse, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Gen, I Do, Mostly OCs but I won't rule out canon characters showing up from time to time, Who likes urban fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-05 05:09:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14610069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoctuaFoxglove/pseuds/NoctuaFoxglove
Summary: In which I post drabbles and short stories I've written taking place in White Wolf/Onyx Path's World of Darkness, both Old and New/Chronicles. I will add tags as the relevant games appear.





	1. Call of the Black Spiral

Garou are taught to fear the Thrall of the Wyrm.

They are taught to fight against it with whatever they can. To keep a tight leash around themselves and never lose control. "Rage, but not _too_ hard," Gaia says. "I've given you this gift, but you must never, ever use it to its full potential. So keep your heads down, my pets, and never look up."

And so she puffs them up with lofty ideals like honor and glory, so that they may continue to believe that they are anything other than monsters. Their Rage isn't any sort of dark urge, the lingering part of the Wyrm still inside them, oh no, of course not. It is a righteous anger against the coming apocalypse. And they will live and die as heroes in one final, brilliant charge.

As long as they don't rage _too_ much.

We know the truth.

When Garou embrace the Thrall, they see, for those few, aching moments, just how much they have been lied to.

They see the world for what it is; a limping dog staggering around in agony, riddled with disease. Its fur is gone, replaced by festering sores, corruption, apathy. Its teeth have all fallen out. It cries out in pain, staring them in the eyes and begging them to end it. End all of its suffering. Good Garou are disgusted by what they see, of course. With the veil torn from their eyes, they have no choice but to lash out, hoping that any act of depravity will help that end come sooner.

What was it that the Litany said? If someone seeks an honorable, swift death, is it not the right thing to do to give it to them?

Most continue to retreat back into the old blissful lies in the face of what they've seen. Right back into Gaia's arms, where she will hold them and stroke their fur and tell them that everything's alright, what they saw was just a bad dream. She wipes their eyes, and then throws them right back into the losing battle, not shedding a tear as they fight and die to keep her propped up for a few more minutes.

Some remember. Not many, but enough. It sits in their head and slowly the pieces come together. Why they were blessed with Rage and who truly gave it to them, and more importantly, they come to understand who will truly win the war.

These lucky few are the ones who escape from underneath the heel of their tyrant, and approach us to pursue our final objective. What the Wyrm has always existed to do, before the rest of the Triat became consumed with jealousy and hatred. Consume and destroy that which is broken and obsolete.

They come to the Spiral, and as they walk it their eyes are opened permanently. It's painful to let go of illusions, but all will say it was worth it in the end. Finally, they understand, and finally, they are free to be what they are meant to be, throwing off the chains of futile duty.

Every Garou will face the reality at some point. And we ask, what is braver? Continuing to live a lie? Or to embrace the cruel, beautiful truth?

The Spiral waits for the dancers to take their place.


	2. Mr. Verney

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game: Promethean: the Created
> 
> The original Frankenstein's Monster reflects about a younger member of his lineage hounding him for answers.

He calls himself Zerah, and thinks his name, which literally means "dawn", as something of a birthright. 

If there is one thing I have to admit, is that his creator put much care into his construction. His stitching is careful and almost delicate, looking out of place on such a massive form. Every inch of his skin below the neck is lined in tattoos that couldn't have been easy to find, not crude etchings but elaborate pieces of art. 

He is the largest Created, of my own lineage or otherwise, that I have seen, and yet he carries himself with a perpetual gentleness unbefitting of us. He speaks softly and simply, like a child. When asked about his past, he speaks fondly of his 'mother', of his loved ones (other Created, of course) and what few friends he has somehow managed to keep. In some ways, I suppose he does share our zeal. Our stubbornness, at least, as not asking nor threats convinced him to leave. But, at least for the moment, he has managed to escape the cynicism that claims all of us eventually. 

Perhaps it is his somewhat privileged birth that has led him to hold the attitudes he does. 

I am still not sure how to feel about him. He seems to have declared us "friends", but that's simply his naivete speaking again. Maybe eventually, he will realize that even monsters can only stand the company of other monsters for so long. Still, he honored his promise to me, so I must honor him in return. I have given him permission to stay with me for a while, so that he may learn whatever it is he wants to know and move on with his pilgrimage. 

It is curious why he decided to seek me out in the first place. He is certainly harboring much more resentment than he lets on. And that, I understand. The patronizing pity our Disquiet brings can in some ways be more toxic than the violent hatred, causing a much more insidious and lasting damage. But I would have thought that there would be easier sources of this information than myself. Perhaps he has things to prove to other Prometheans?

Right now, as I write this, he is sitting outside, playing his guitar. I still do not know how he manages to work such a delicate instrument with those enormous fingers. I admit, there are times when it annoys me, and I feel my humours boiling, urging me to smash the thing. 

The urges dissapate when I ask myself why I feel this way, and I realize that I cannot answer them in a satisfactory way. Or, worse perhaps, that my feelings are envious, that this figurative child has found a skill that people value while everything I touch ends up breaking. 

It is times like that where I go quiet, and simply listen. And I try to take myself back, to a time where I too was new and innocent. 

Maybe I'll let him stay a little longer.


	3. Lowest Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game: Promethean: the Created
> 
> Candy, a Frankenstein, recalls the first time she gave into Torment.

I understand why he's doing what he's doing. It may not make sense to someone who already has a soul, to go intentionally make the wrong decisions. But right and wrong aren't things that come naturally to us. Normal people have to go through the process of learning that too, but they get a guiding hand through the process. Smaller bodies, less dangerous minds. No one will look at us and think we have that same kind of innocence, and we don't get the same forgiveness. 

I've been around a while, relative to the others of our kind. The only reason I'm as stable as I am is I had time to work all this shit out, somewhat. It's still there, and the more that gets piled on me the harder it gets to keep it contained, but I don't lose it like I used to. Most of the time.

There was a time where I threw myself into it. It's a process that we call Stannum, but at the time I didn't care what it was called. The second the idea hit me, that maybe I didn't have to take whatever was shoved down my throat, but could rebel against it and finally hit back, every ounce of humour in my body latched onto it. I felt like a wildfire, fierce and unstoppable. They would be afraid of me, no matter what I did. So why not give them a reason to be scared?

For a while, I guess I tried to pretend there was some kind of dignity to it. I would only let loose on people who deserved it, I thought. And for a while, I did, or at least I think I did. I'd see some scumbag on the streets drag a girl to the side to mug her, and I'd strike like a bolt of lightning out of nowhere. I'd follow stories of investigations of drug dealers, murderers, rapists, letting that frustration and hatred latch onto them. They'd be found later, a bloody smear on the wall of some alley and without a trace of who did it. 

It felt good. It felt so fucking good, and everytime I tore something down I felt more alive. For a while, I thought it might have been the catalyst I needed. An awful brutal way of getting a soul, but at the time, I thought maybe it was worth being a murderer if it meant I could be real. 

It took me a while to realize that I was losing control over myself. I got bolder, with this newfound confidence, and wandered more and more into the center of society proper. The range of people who "deserved" it got wider and wider as I was confronted with those old stares of disquiet, and still I didn't care. I was worth protecting, too. And if they wanted to fuck with me, then they'd be met with no mercy, too. 

This is... something I don't really like to talk about, but I probably should. It's when it finally got through to me that this had to end. I was looking for shelter for the night, and my usual strategy of trying to find some abandoned building to hide in backfired. The owner came to visit, showing the property to some potential buyers, and naturally kicked me back out onto the streets.  


When I saw the disgust in his eyes when he saw me, the way he spoke of me like I was a piece of trash to be disposed of, it set something terrible off in me. All the anger and torment in my chest reached an awful climax. 

It wouldn't be enough to merely kill him. No, that wasn't good enough for the roiling hatred that'd taken me over. I needed to make his life hell. I tracked down his workplace, breaking his windows, leaving messages for him, and making sure that his every waking moment would be on me, and what I would do to him next. And because I had no identity, I would never be caught. All the while the torment whispered its encouragement to me, that he deserved everything that was coming to him. And... and I believed it. 

This stalking kept up for a week. It culminated when the torment's voice reached a fever pitch, telling me to end it. I found his home and, in the dead of night when I knew he would be asleep, I set fire to it. 

I found a vantage point and watched the aftermath. But as the smoke and flames grew, the fire trucks and police cars gathered, the neighbors gathered, crying and screaming in fear that their houses and families might be next, the firemen dragging unconscious bodies from the house.... I thought I would feel satisfied that finally I'd gotten my revenge. Instead, I felt nothing, completely hollow except for a massive weight in my stomach. 

The house was completely destroyed, and as I left the scene I felt just as burnt out. All I wanted to do was disappear, not just from the world but from myself as well, just so I wouldn't have to think about what I'd done, or anything else. Guilt. Regret. It took me a while to connect the names of these feelings to the feelings themselves. 

I guess I did get my wish, in some way. Somehow I instinctively knew what to do, and I found a quiet place, far away from any people, and just vanished for a while. I don't remember much from that time. It was like being in between sleep and being awake. Aware enough not to dream, but asleep enough not to feel. But not feeling anything was good. 

The fire inside eventually woke me up. Enough laying around, it said. It's time to get going again. So I got up, and started walking once more. Guess that explains why I'm so far away from where I started. 

I still don't feel good about what I did. Sometimes I still have nightmares about it, becoming that monster again. Maybe that's why I've thrown myself so hard at Bronze. If I do good for others like me, do you think it could make up for all the shit I've done?

I don't know for sure. But I can hope for the best.


End file.
